


Slight of the Hand

by TheNillaWafer



Category: Persona 5
Genre: (slightly shippy but its not overbearing), Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Childhood Trauma, Coping, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied Ship, Physical Abuse, Ryuji's Asshole Dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-06 23:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12828144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNillaWafer/pseuds/TheNillaWafer
Summary: A lot of kids can't wait until they get their first swig of alcohol, or their first drunken experience or even their first hangover. The Phantom Thieves, in fun and honest celebration, are those kids.Except for Ryuji, who knows all too painfully well just what a twisted path it could lead to.(No plot spoilers, only implied backstory spoilers for Ryuji's confidant ranks--set really anywhere after Kaneshiro's Palace**Heavy Alcohol and Abuse warnings)





	1. Amber Waves of Fear

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea floating in my head for a little bit until I finally had the push from a pal of mine to be like "Okay. Get it done!" And of course, I'm so goddamn sad now. 
> 
> ...May have gotten a bit too carried away with the angst and pain and shit, but, whoops, what are you gonna do? We all crave that pain and suffering...
> 
> Bless this sweet boy, he did nothing to deserve any of this (no matter how overboard or minor it may have been in canon?) and neither did his mother. Protect them. Please. I'm so sad. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Not much could scare Ryuji; at least, nothing much in the means of tangible things that play on his senses. Ever since he was little, the loud claps of thunder and the flash show of lightning in the skies dazzled and amazed him when friends ran and hid; a piping hot bowl of ramen that bubbled with the power to burn flesh and tongue never deterred him as the salty, meaty taste slid down his throat; or even the loud vicious BANG of a gunshot echoing through the depths of Mementos made the boy jump with adrenaline in his veins and his nerves on haywire, just like his days on the Track Team. 

In short, Ryuji was a tough guy to shake, but when Akira pulled out that glass bottle of molten amber, the young punk froze to his seat. 

Like many things, he held a strong connection to the bottle, it’s contents sloshing about as voices called out around the table around him, but wasn’t a welcoming, encouraging emotion—this was raw, untamed fear.

“...How much you want, man?” He locked eyes with Akira’s intense gaze when turned back with the red plastic cup in hand, the dark inky pools burning with a strange power to them that encapsulated the faux-blonde.

“Y-Yeah...” Ryuji managed to spit out, his words rough like sandpaper grazing against his throat.

Out of the corner of his eye, a curious cat crept along the edge of the young punk’s chair before finally ascending up onto the table with a hard thump and a betrayed expressed, “Hey! You told me we were getting sushi to celebrate!” 

Makoto’s voice was stern and sharp, slicing through the thick fog of his mind like a polished blade and straight to Ryuji’s ears, “Don’t dodge my question, Kurusu.  _ Where  _ did you get  _ that? _ ” 

“Um, yeah... I’m curious myself too...” Ann mused, leaning forward against the rickety little table. 

Akira smirked, a dangerous dagger-like grin that always took a prominent stab to the young punk’s chest as he replied, “...A friend.” 

Ryuji opened his mouth to speak, but was held back by the hazy and sluggish stupor he found himself mentally in. Yusuke best him to the punch, “...Do we, perhaps, know what friend it was?” 

“Don’t worry abou—“ Ryuji could see Akira’s lips still moving but the moment that seal was ripped and the cap was popped, it was as if he felt engulfed in flames. The smell of a sour fire singed at his nose, and a harsh spice charcoaled his gut in instant nausea. He felt as if he could puke right there and then, but he kept himself focused, paying closer attention towards the glimmer in Akira’s eyes behind the glare of his dirty glasses, or Ann’s rosy pink lip gloss complementing the softness of her face, Makoto’s brow furrowed in a hardened resolve that felt as if he were looking at his own mother— _ Shit, Mom... I’m sorry _ —Yusuke's defined profile studying the shape of the bottle-- _ the bottle, the bottle— _

_ \--the bottle that flung across the room with a deafening crash and sent a horrific display of glimmering fragments back at them like wartime shrapnel rocketing through the air and the mangled sobs of begging and pleading reaching his young, absorbing ears and feeling of anger and frustration as he stood his ground to a reward of a hot, wet face were a fist once was and his vision growing dark and the world fading to an inky void of black and Oh God oh God, Mom, I’m so sorry I pissed him off, I’m sorry, I’ll make that son of a bitch pay and-- _

“--Hellooooo? Earth to Ryuji?” Ann snapped her slender fingers with a sharp crack to pull him back into the present reality. “You okay? You haven’t even touched your drink...” 

Touched your drink, touched your drink-- _ God what the fuck is wrong with you? I’m sorry Dad. Goddamnit you don’t touch my fucking drink, you don’t touch my shit, you don’t touch anything, you understand that dumbass? I’m really sorry Dad. What was that? I’m sorry  _ sir.

Ryuji frowned. He failed to even realize that Akira had already poured and gave him his stupid plastic cup that now sat mere inches from him in all of its wretched, disgusting stench. He could feel a pair of eyes bore into him--Ann’s crystal blue own as they peeked behind her own cup. She broke the gaze for a split second only to take a large gulp and shutter at the sensation of fire--or maybe electricity?--nipping at the ends of her nerves, coursing through her spine, and leaving her stunned for a brief, fleeting moment. 

“Y-Yeah... I-I’m fine, o-of course I’m fine!” Ryuji caught himself, forcing a crudely crafted smile to stretch across his face before focusing his attention on Akira. Quite a madman he was, having just knocked back his glass as if it were mere water and smirked smugly to the chorus of both Makoto and Morgana chiding him like a little boy. While Ryuji wasn’t one to be a stickler (or agree with Morgana, nevertheless), the point that Boss was a mere floor beneath them as they engaged in  _ actual  _ illegal activity was, actually, pretty dangerous.

Of course, that wasn’t really the reason Ryuji felt a sense of dread welling and festering in his gut, but that’s what he liked to tell himself; an excuse that hid the truth, really. With that silver tongue of his, Akira managed to even get the Student Council President to hold a filled cup in her hand in celebration in mere minutes after they started

That’s why he was their leader: he wielded a sly and cunning air about him that lured you close, tempting and baiting for you to be near him and you could either feel the protection of a towering brick edifice or the hot lick of a burning flame, depending on who you were...

...just like the old man. 

“—Going to celebrate, mind if I say something?” 

Ryuji failed to realize he’d zoned out again. 

Akira’s slick, deep voice danced about the air between them all in a playful teeter as he poured himself more to drink, “Please, enlighten us, dear Ann~” 

Ryuji reminded himself to breathe, to push past that taste in the air of hard spice and sour disgust that threatened to suffocate him _.  _ The stairwell was right beside him, just a few feet away. If he left now, he could save himself from the pain, the fear and the  _ memories  _ that already stretched towards the surface of his mind. He could just say his Mom needed him home—that maybe she came back from work early and needed help with dinner. Yeah! That’d work! 

Just as he moved to push back his cup, the voices all came back to him at once. Yusuke's stoic tone was the first to settle with a mere “Oh, there he is.”.

The young Kosei student had his cup raised, perched elegantly between his long, slender fingers as if it were a golden goblet in a medieval portrait. Morgana’s childish mews come next with a sarcastic, “You don’t look so good, Ryuji... maybe all that staying up late’s finally taking a toll on you, hehe!”

“Oh, give him a break. He’s been out of it since we got here.” Ann spoke up with honest bluntness but yet Ryuji could still catch the slight concern that wavered in her voice as she continued, “He’s probably just exhausted from the Palace and all.”

“Sonuva bitch...” It was Akira’s guttural growl within earshot that sent a deathly shiver down Ryuji’s spine as he caught the lanky figure reaching for the bottle once again on the table. He hadn’t kept track, but it  _ at least  _ has to be the boy’s third or fourth cup. 

“Akira, does the taste not burn your throat?” Yusuke turned with a raised brow towards the flamboyant leader whose usual stone-faced demeanor slipped into a wider grin and a redder face with every sip he snuck.

The trickster merely his head, “Nah... It’s gotta nice kick t’ it, really.” 

A nice kick, kick,  _ kick-- _

_ \--Goddamn pairs of eyes watching him like a vulture waiting for the single false step into death and the sweat beads on his fuzzy little brow as he waits for his mother to take the baited lie and his father to peel the vicious gaze from him and Okay Daddy I told Mommy what you wanted me to tell her I told her that I tripped and fell at school and not that you kicked me a couple times in the legs and the tummy for disobeying you I’m sorry I made you mad I really should have listened please don’t hurt me again I promise I’ll be a good boy next time and-- _

“--Cheers! T’ ‘nother successful mission an’ t’ the ever growin’ Phantom Thieves--” Akira pauses as the grin of pearly white teeth drops flat onto the hardwood beneath his feet, dark eyes swimming with some kind of inky movement glaring hard at the sober young man across from him, “--Even if some o’ ‘em don’t feel like bein’ a part o’ a celebration.”

Ryuji felt more and more uncomfortable by the second, and awkwardly followed the motions of raising his untouched cup to the ceiling, finally joining in with everyone else as they all ring in the good wishes and comradery together with even  _ more  _ drinks. Ryuji, of course, dropped act right there and then, setting his cup down and fiddling awkwardly with his pocket as he tried to find his phone and distracted his attention towards Morgana who now began to pad towards the stairway, most likely to play watchdog—or, in this case, watch _ cat. _

_ So much for being a voice of reason, ya damn cat. _ Ryuji let his thick fingers fumble with the fabric of his pocket lining until he felt a graze of a smooth plastic case on his fingertips.  _ Just say Mom texted you. You need to leave. You need to leave  _ now.

“L-Look, I’m uh... I’m sorry for bein’ a pain in the ass, guys. Mom just texted me and she needs me to help with dinner and--” 

By this point, Yusuke reached for the diminishing bottle on the counter and added a couple splashes of amber to the white plastic inside of his cup and Ryuji had to keep from wondering just how many swigs of the shit he’s had now, too. “Hm, odd. I didn’t hear your phone go off.” He knew the artist didn’t  _ mean  _ to sound accusing, but goddamn Yusuke do you  _ really  _ need to be observant at  _ this  _ time? 

Ann leaned forward in her seat on the couch, “Wait, I thought your Mom worked late?” 

_ Shit.  _ They’re on to him. Ryuji could literally  _ feel  _ the eyes bore himself him, burrowing deep beneath his shirt, his flesh and muscles, as if threatening to rip him apart from the inside out. He felt the heat rush to his face and the tension build in his panicky chest. “W-Well, she got out early... Y-Yeah, w-we were supposed to have dinner together n’ she told me las’ night but stupid ol’ me forgot, heh, so uh...”

Before the punk could even rise to his feet, he felt a firm, hard grip on his shoulder and it froze him solid into place. There was a toxic look in Akira’s dark eyes looming over him and as he spoke, it was as if a voice bellowed out that isn’t his own, “C’mon, Ryuji. Jus’ one drink.” The venom seemed to seep out of his words, as if dripping like drunken drool onto the table between them. 

The faux-blonde felt sick again, the scent of stale whiskey burning his nose and making him recoil in disgust, “N-Nah, I really—“

“Hey!” Morgana hissed from the edge of the room, “Boss is still here—if Ryuji leaves, he needs to be sober!” 

“ _ All  _ of us need to be sober.” Makoto added, finally placing her cup down onto the table with firm recognition, “What we’re doing is illegal—“

“Shhhhhh...” Akira began calmly, nearly tripping over himself as he turned to face the young woman, “We’re fine! Besides, s’not like y’ get drunk ‘mediately.”

Ann moved to speak, but Ryuji’s mind was too clouded with the dark thoughts and cursed pictures and distorted sounds of his past to hear her.  _ Like hell ya don’t...  _ Akira had probably knocked back enough of the shit for all six of them, even including an alcohol-intolerant cat. ... _ Just wait until it catches up, man... It ain’t gonna be fun.  _

“Jus’ have uh toas’ w’ me, man.” That wasn’t even Akira’s soft-spoken and meek voice, or  _ Joker _ ’s sly and sultry voice. This was different, like something dark overtaking him like a powerful shadow from the deepest, foulest depths of Mementos. 

The shit liqueur will do to you.

“N-Nah, I really gotta—“

“God _ damnit  _ Ryuji!” Akira slammed his cup down onto the table, spilling some of the molten amber all over the countertop and the punk’s idle hand that rested there. Another wave of nausea hit him— _ I gotta go, I gotta go, I gotta go  _ right now. Ryuji moved to pull himself from his seat, a couple stray drops of whiskey rolling down onto his sleeve and pant legs, but that rock-hard grip remained on his shoulder. “D-Dude, y’ ain’t really bein’ uh te’m playa righ’ now.” 

“A-Akira,” Ryuji caught the sight of Yusuke's tall frame rising quickly to his feet and pivot over towards the action, moving to carefully peel the drunken delinquent off of him, “I-I think you need to sit down—“

“D-Don’t tou’h me, man.”

Ryuji could hear Makoto’s voice, then Ann’s next as he moved to rip the tightening fingers from his shoulder, the pain beginning to shoot down his arm as if caught in a vice grip. It didn’t help that the meaty talons of both panic and fear dug into him as well like a predator ready to indulge in it’s hunted prey. 

The world began to swirl and the floorboards of the attic began to shift off balance—odd for being the only one in the bunch to not even take a sip of the shit and feel this messed up. Ryuji could feel his chest tighten and his head swim and his eyes well up with tears— _ God, Please no not here— _

—and suddenly, silence. 

Ryuji opened his eyes to find a stoic, angered Akira staring deep into his own caramel eyes. Everyone else who crowded on the parameters of his vision stood to attention, wide-eyed and almost what seemed like... disbelief? Did he say something? Did Akira? He hadn’t heard or felt anything but as the moppy-haired boy suddenly threw Ryuji’s own shoulder back with a jolt, it wasn’t enough until he heard a deep growl reach his ears: “...Don’t be such a goddamn pussy.”

The world shattered around him in a lackluster display of nothing. No more attic in LeBlanc. No more fellow Phantom Thieves. No more Akira leering deep into his eyes. 

Just a single sentence in that familiar,  _ godforsaken  _ voice—belonging to no man but a  _ monster— _ that was forever branded into his memory:  _ Don’t be such a fuckin’ pussy, boy. _

That moment, oh, that  _ goddamn moment when Ryuji’s vision fuzzed in and out of darkness like the static of an old television with the searing, burning heat replacing the feeling in the left side of his jaw and he felt the cold grooves of the hardwood floor beneath his fingertips and his knees and he could taste the metallic pools of blood staining his pearly white teeth to a sinister dark crimson and his mother is screaming and begging for him to Stop it just please stop of course the bastard doesn’t he just scoffs and tosses the weak jab of Don’t be such a fuckin’ pussy as the boy’s eyes well up with tears and he doesn't want to fight he doesn't want to hurt his Mom and make her suffer but the rage fuels him and for the first time Ryuji feels what it’s like to experience malice and he wants to  _ tear  _ this fucker  _ limb from limb  _ so painstakingly slow the sun’ll go down and rise back up and-- _

“Y’know what? Fine.” Ryuji found himself suddenly acting upon impulse, an irritating anger overtaking him as it drove out every other tangible emotion it could in a rampage, “You wanna drink? Let’s goddamn do it!  _ Then,  _ I’m leaving. Got it?” He kept his sights focused hard and firm onto a whimsical Akira who seemed too loose to even stand on his own two feet steadily at this point. Rough fingers shot out to curl around the untouched cup of whiskey and bring it hastily to his lips. A couple voices echoed distantly as he focused more on forcing himself to ignore the sight of the sloshing alcohol, the smell of the stinging spice-- “Ah, yeah. Cheers to the Phantom Thieves, woo.” Ryuji chimed with a dangerously sarcastic tone that was actually quite unlike himself as well, “Let’s celebrate by losing all goddamn control of ourselves, yeah. Because that’s the cool shit to do, ain’t it?” 

More voices. He couldn’t hear them clearly enough to know if they were trying to figure out what was going on or if they were trying to coax him out of the hasty actions. Whatever they were up to, however, it wasn’t fast enough. 

One mere drop of the concoction soaking into his tongue was enough to make Ryuji spit up slightly back into his cup in absolute shock and disgust, but he didn’t stop. No, that would have given into Akira’s drunken satisfaction. He couldn’t have that. Instead, Ryuji didn’t think too hard about enduring the punishment of drowning in the entire thing as he knocked back the rest of the whiskey, fighting the urge to vomit straight into the plastic cup. 

Ah, that sickly familiar feeling of asphyxiation. 

With everything burning--his mouth, his throat, his nose, his eyes--Ryuji finished with a final swallow and struggled to breathe, gasping and  _ reaching  _ for that sweet, sweet intake of air he just  _ couldn’t  _ get a grasp of, it was just too out of reach. He felt his chest tighten and his heart pound and he forced himself to not think-- _ not to feel _ \--the  _ thick meaty grip of a large hand wrapped around his throat and his vision burning to ash in the corners and the shrill screams of his mother sobbing on the ground and the feeling of just being weightless as a sharp, venomous voice tightens the hand and speaks Knew the whore’d be causin’ trouble bu’ I figured you’d had learned yer damn place, ya piece o’ shit and the anger--oh Lord have mercy the raw murderous intent that sang in his veins--fanned the flames and let them roar into an inferno of fury and I’ll  _ fucking  _ kill you if you lay another finger on my goddamn Mom you asshole and-- _

_ \---And...! _

Sighing loudly, Ryuji merely flicked the empty cup with an angered snap of his wrist at Akira, peeling away to march down the stairs as the burning embers of the alcohol still licked at the back of his throat; too blinded to not even see Morgana scrambling out of his way. The cries of concerns and curiosity behind him melted and gave way to the familiar and more quiet settling of the quaint cafe on the ground level, but Ryuji hadn’t planned on sticking around to admire the scenery. He’d just made it all the way to the door when--

“What in the actual hell is going on up there?” Sojiro’s voice was sharp and firm, but more out of warm, parental discipline instead of the devilishly drunken Hell he just had to endure, and while it was a more warmer of a welcome, the young punk  _ wasn’t  _ in the mood. “I just had to kick out one of my regulars early because you damn kids can’t keep it down up there!” 

“...Sorry...” At this point, Ryuji didn’t even try to hide the defeat in his expression and while he kept his gaze down and aimed in front of the door, it was as if the elder could read him like a book. A usually bright and exuberant young man suddenly seemed so downtrodden and beaten...? Not right. 

Ryuji shifted in his place to open the door but the same, warm voice reached him again, “...Everything okay, kid?” 

“...Y-Yeah... I’m fine...” A hard sniffle betrayed him right there on the spot. He’d crash and burn any second now in a fiery, self-destructive explosion and he needed to get out of there  _ now.  _ “J-Just... not feelin’ too good, that’s all...” Sojiro, most likely still skeptical and hesitant, finally spoke up to bid the young man a good night and safe ride home, but even with sweet freedom just one more additional step out the door, Ryuji paused. “O-Oh, and, uh... Boss?” He turned just slightly to catch the tall, slender frame of the elder in the corner of his eye with the pink and white outfit blending together in a blotted out blur of welling tears.  _ I wish I had a dad like you instead.  _ He  _ wants  _ to say, but he can’t. Ryuji knows he’d damned to carry the weight of that horrific abuse on his shoulders for the rest of his life. Nothing would cleanse him. Nothing would cure him. Nothing would fix him. Additionally, it was not Sojiro’s duty to help carry that burden as well, let alone the rest of the crew. Instead, Ryuji settled with a soft, “T-Thanks for havin’ us over... I-I appreciate it...” 

Ryuji took that as his initiative to leave, the soft bell chiming behind him as the door shuts and he made it all about five steps out past LeBlanc before finally succumbing to the eruption of emotions. No longer did he feel blood-red anger but the sudden baby blue of sadness. He crashed hard into the side of a chain link fence, the cadence of the metal rattling pairing in an off-key tune with his mangled sobs as he slid down onto the cold, wet alley floor. He felt weak. He felt powerless. He felt as if he was nothing. 

He hadn’t seen that man called  _ Dad  _ in what felt like  _ decades  _ and yet even just the memory of that  _ fucking monster  _ was enough to tear him apart and leave him battered and broken like a used ragdoll. 

There’s so much Ryuji wanted to do right now. He wanted to go home and make dinner. He wanted to hug his dear Mom and tell her how much she means to him. He wanted to walk back into LeBlanc and tell Sojiro sorry for having to put up with him. He wanted to go back upstairs and throw the rest of that fucking bottle of whiskey out the goddamn window. He wanted to go upstairs and help Akira calm down for the night. He wanted to take the rest of the crew out of there and make sure they all get home safe. He wanted to let the others know that, no he’s mad, he’s just upset and that there’s a huge reason why and it’s not Akira’s fault it’s just something he’ll have to live with for the rest of his life and here’s why.

Ryuji had so much on his mind but literally no energy to do any of it. He was too drained; too beaten. Instead, he just sat on the ground, his back pressed against this rickety fence and continued to snivel through the pain, physically and mentally. 

Eventually, he would pick himself up and make his way home without any issues. Eventually he would make dinner and surprise his exhausted mother with a fresh bowl of hot noodles or whatever else he could craft together. Eventually he would sleep off tonight’s events and tell the others about his breakdown. 

But for now, Ryuji needed some time to himself. 

It was the first time in  _ years  _ he could cry in absolute peace and solitude. 

 


	2. Cerulean Skies of Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you find someone that you trust with your innermost darkest secrets, your blood-stained history and your overall lowest points in your young life and you reopen the wounds of the past, is that really enough for closure?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao originally this fic was supposed to just be an angst one-shot, but then a couple people were like "yo... they gotta talk it out..." and I was like YES. And but that wasn't even enough, my own brain betrayed me and gave me the concept for an additional third chapter onto this and I'm was like HELL YES. This is great when you realize that I've been telling myself for months now to chill with the P5 content but hey, supply and demand my dudes. Enjoy!

The soft, quiet alleyways carried the murmurs of soft voices and distant car engines up into the open window of Ryuji’s bedroom; a gentle wisp of a cool, spring breeze rustling the dusty old blinds off the side. Frozen chocolate eyes watched as he turned the thick cell phone over and over above him in his hand, the slick plastic case catching and bouncing the light about like a shining star in the nighttime sky. 

_ Bzzt, bzzt.  _

Another message. 

With a groan, Ryuji sat upright in his messy bed and flicked away the notification, staring blankly at the crude manga-style lock screen. He hadn’t bothered to check and see which one of the bunch sent this one, instead noting that the little number beside his messaging app grew with another unread text. 

Twelve in total.

With his thumb hovering haphazardly over the icon on his screen, Ryuji froze suddenly at the soft knocks of his door, “...Juju, sweetie...?” The soft voice barely pushed back against the thick barrier and the faux-blonde bit back a swear. It was 7:34pm and the thought of dinner hadn’t even crossed his mind nearly all day. 

Ryuji ushered her in and watched as the small, tired young woman rolled back the door and strided in past the doorway with a single, shallow step. She was still in a dingy old work uniform, “Everything okay? You’re usually not this quiet...” 

_ Shit. _ It was showing, wasn’t it? His disdain and his fear. The other night with  _ Akira  _ and that reeking alcohol and those horrible,  _ painful  _ flickers of the past and him, him,  _ him _ \-- 

Ryuji forced himself to shrug, “M’okay, jus’ tired...” Hopefully his mom would buy it. Doubtful, but it was a shot. 

The young boy listened as feather-light footsteps danced across the hardwood floor and a warm, radiant touch draped across his forehead in loving concern. That voice, so soft and comforting, wrapped around him like a thick blanket, “...Hm, you don’t feel like you’re getting sick or anything. That’s good...!” 

Ryuji stole a glance up to meet with large, tired eyes; a warm flame kindling behind glossy glass. His mother’s face was always soft and radiant to the eye, with light wrinkles and lively pink lips framed beautifully with a soft cascade of light brown hair. Ryuji sighed and glanced back down at the phone still jostling in his hand, the unlit screen now just reflecting his face like a darkened mirror. 

He felt a wave of disgust. Where his beautiful mother was blessed with a soft, round face that appeared light and loving, his own face was thin and sharp, carved to a fine point as if chiseled by a rusty old blade.

Tonight, Ryuji didn’t even see himself in his own reflection. 

He saw  _ him  _ instead. 

That  _ hideous  _ knife edged jaw, those  _ heinous  _ dark eyes that were toiled with anger like upturned earth and those thin,  _ lifeless _ pale lips of his...

The faux-blonde felt sick to his stomach and let the phone drop into the plush bed beneath him as his mother shifted to kiss his forehead, “Well, I came up to tell you dinner’s ready if you want any... If not, that’s okay. I’ll keep some leftovers for you if you want them later or even tomorrow at school.” 

That’s right, tomorrow was Monday. That celebratory ‘party’ was Saturday night and Ryuji realized that he’d spent the past day and some odd hours just wallowing in his sorrows and pain, ignoring any and all messages that buzzed from his phone and keeping uncharacteristically silent;  _ sobbing  _ even, before his mother returned home not long ago. 

Best to get the shit out of your system before anyone sees.  _ Can’t show weakness, y’know? _

“T-Thanks Mom...” Ryuji muttered and forced a slight smile as she moved gracefully, still floating across the hard floor even after a hard day on her feet at work. “A-And, uh... S-Sorry I didn’t make dinner tonight--I said I would’ve an--”

The young woman paused at the doorway and offered a light smile that normally would have put the boy at ease, but now only made the bile in his throat solidify like a rock and burn in place, just like that cup of--

_ Stop. ‘Effin stop. _

“Oh, it’s alright. You shouldn’t have to be making dinner every night anyway, you’ve got school and friends to deal with.” Ryuji bites back a hard cough in his chest, a rising pressure that threatened to bust at every second that passed and now he practically panicked to retreat to the safety of an eventually empty and quiet room once more. 

His mother isn’t finished, however, “O-Oh, and... Juju?”  _ Shit. _ Ryuji’s mind swam with about a handful of conflicting, fleeting emotions that shook and rattled his brain as he felt the bed sheets beside him buzz with another message--make that  _ thirteen  _ unread texts, now. “Now, I’d never mean to intrude into your personal life and all, but... you’d tell me if something was wrong...  _ right?”  _

Ryuji felt overwhelming guilt well up in his chest, paired with fear and panic seeping through his pores and creeping under his skin like a parasite or sadness that loomed over him like a towering edifice; there was even a tinge of annoyance bubbling and festering like a cauldron of toxic sludge ready to just erupt  _ if she didn’t get out of his goddamn room-- _

Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. 

And like that, the guilt weaseled it’s way straight to the top and Ryuji felt himself shrug, “Well, I mean--” 

Goddamn, where did he even  _ begin?  _ Of course there’s the Phantom Thieves and stealing distorted hearts and awakening to the awesome power of Captain Kidd and  _ you better keep your goddamn mouth shut about that, you promised them you wouldn’t out any of them and endanger them and you  _ really  _ don’t need to make Mom worry about your own safety, holy shit!  _

There was always the whole cliche ‘how do you know what love feels like?’ ordeal but it seemed like such a stupid stretch and merely just a distraction. Besides, Ryuji wasn’t even sure himself if the cadence of his rapidfire heartbeat everyday at school or at the hideout or even through  _ text  _ was him actually  _ in love  _ or just him so desperate for attention anymore. On top of that, why complicate things when your handsome and mesmerizing kinda-crush is also, technically, the reason you’re suddenly reeling on your painful and scarring childhood trauma? 

_ Give him a break... he didn’t know shit... _

That party--all that whiskey and raised voices and  _ hard vice grips of a hand and the burning of his throat and the watering of his eyes and Don’t be such a-- _

No.  _ Not at all.  _

Ryuji  _ knew  _ his mother bore too much weight from that drunken old man, and finally-- _ finally!-- _ it seemed as if she could move on in her life after all these years. Why drag her down again? Why make her relive all those painful memories and those panic-stricken nights and those tearful mornings and absolutely ruin her  _ all over again? _

Simple. He won’t. The teen’s already taken hit after hit  _ after hit _ for her. Of course, he’ll do it all over again, no worries. 

“Y-Yeah...” Keeping his mom happy was at least  _ one  _ thing he could be proud of himself for anymore. At least, Ryuji  _ thought  _ so. “...I’ll let y’know.” Keeping her safe, however... “T-Thanks Mom...!”

The door slid shut with a quiet thud and Ryuji practically leapt out of bed and over towards the trashcan, choking against the hard welt of burning anguish in his throat. It reminded of him of Saturday night and how he felt restricted, suffocating without any room to breathe. Ryuji pushed against the spinning emotions and whirling feelings and fought to purge himself of whatever festered in his gut, tears pricking his vision.

Nothing came save for a couple drops of spit, but the tides of nausea rolled back and forth and left him feeling choppy and sluggish like a weathered captain on rough, rocky seas.

_ Thanks, Cap’n. _

Speaking of Captain Kidd, he had to wonder... 

Slithering back into bed, Ryuji grabbed for his phone and hovered momentarily over the eerie and luring Metaverse Navigator, but the  _ Bzzt bzzt!  _ of yet another message--fourteen unread--made him shift to his pile of texts: two from Yusuke, three from Ann, another three from Makoto,  _ six  _ from Akira. 

Dark chocolate eyes scanned the words, all open invitations and extended hands of help and aid in what was, evidently and obviously to the others, a dark moment for Ryuji. It was Akira, however, who was the most vivid in his correspondences and it baffled the young punk on just  _ how  _ someone so stoic and so passive could end up moving mountains and changing tides with mere words.

[Ryuji, I hope you’re okay. I just woke up. Makoto and Ann brought me up to speed after I texted them and asked what happened the other night.] 

There’s no way he knew. There couldn’t had been.

[I was a dick. There’s really no way around that. And I’m absolutely sorry.]

But then again, loose lips at Shujin had already sunk two ships before. Probably was about to sink more if not for that  _ smug ass piece of shit _ . 

[Apologizing through text is shitty of me, and I’d much rather tell you in person. But I also want to give you space if that’s what you want. I don’t want to bother you.]

Makoto and Ann... Had they told him anything more? No doubt they found out when that  _ bastard  _ Kamoshida opened his mouth to the  _ whole damned school _ . 

[I shouldn’t have even brought that bottle home with me. We could’ve all had a nice night without me losing my shit and getting drunk. I’m the one who really screwed up. I’m sorry.]

_ He’ll hit you the second he gets pissed off. I heard his dad was the same way. Like father like son, right? _

[Ryuji, I feel horrible to keep messaging you even. You probably want nothing to do with me right now and I get it.]

Nobody wanted anything to do with him: the problem child, the short fuse, the punk, the loser,  _ the drunkard’s son _ \--

[I’m truly and honestly sorry. Whenever you feel up to it, can we talk?]

\--everyone except for Akira.

The lump of dread and guilt seemed to melt away into engulfing and bellowing sadness and regret. Akira didn’t  _ mean  _ to do wrong. Of course not, he wasn’t that kind of guy. Ryuji felt horrible for even blaming him as if he were to search his entire past like ancient lore and know every nook and cranny of it. 

Tears beginning to blur his vision, Ryuji swallowed hard and let his thumbs hesitantly type out a single word: [Tomorrow].

Sent. 

The phone locked with a click, the lit screen dying down into a black void and Ryuji let himself nestle into the cool, thick blankets of his bed. It wasn’t even 8 o’clock, but he didn’t care. He let his stomach rumble with a weak feigning growl and closed his eyes, letting the soft waves of pity cover his eyes and close his mouth and lulling him to sleep. 

* * *

The sun was still high in the air as Ryuji paced about the rooftop, glancing stealthily over the edge and into the courtyard to catch the crowns of bobbing heads darting and moving about. Most of them traversed towards the front gates, but a few students lingered behind for clubs and studying and whatnot. 

Akira was on his way.

Ryuji probably could have taken a seat in the weathered old chair by the air vents and calmed himself while he waited but that was the last thing he could bring himself to even attempt to do. His leg jostled anxiously with a dull, numbing pain and his heart pounded in his chest and  _ oh god he’s never told anyone this deep shit so willingly.  _

At this point, it probably would had been easier to just tell Akira he thought he was ungodly handsome. 

_ Heh, as if he’d ever feel th’ same ‘bout my sorry ass...  _

Not a moment later did the thick metal door creak open with a loud, tired groan, Akira slipping out from behind it with a grimace of disgust and fleeting panic. To the untrained eye, the moment was nothing, but Ryuji  _ swore  _ in that flash of a moment, he could feel the mask slip and falter into a more sly and cunning Joker, grimacing at the slight misstep of detection as he waited among the thin strip of shadows. 

The moment he stepped out into the sun however, the rays of light caught the messy ends of his granite hair like stars in the nighttime sky and the glimmer that shone through his glasses and soaked deep into his dark eyes bright and loud like fireworks blazing across the landscape; he was Akira Kurusu once more. 

Ryuji’s brain took a moment to collect the meek words that reached his ears. A smaller, more minute apology for being late to their personal meeting. The punk stole another quick glance down below the edge--not a single soul remained in the courtyard now. 

_ Peace. Quiet. Alone.  _

Wait.  _ Almost.  _ As Ryuji forced himself to take a seat, he kept his eyes trained on the school bag Akira had set down on the ground beside him, drawing up another old dusty chair from the corner. Just had Ryuji had felt himself calm down  _ just a smidge  _ enough to even  _ think, _ he fell hard and fast back to square one of the hard grip of fear and the harsh eye of judgement.  _ Morgana was here.  _

The punk opened his mouth to speak, chocolate eyes still fixed on the bag when Akira’s deep voice beat him to it, “Ryuji, I...” The usual steadfast tone, smooth and unwavering this time felt heavy with regret, he could feel it. The punk bit down hard on his tongue and let his foot thump rapidly against the warm concrete as he continued, “I literally cannot express how sorry I am about that other night. A-And, I just... I feel horrible—Hell, I can’t even  _ remember  _ what I did, everyone else had to tell me...” 

So that’s what it was like to be drunk; to not remember, to not recall even the slightest idea of what stupid and reckless actions you took. The dull pain ebbed its way up his leg as a familiar roar of a voice rang in his ears, a distant nightmare of a horrible childhood.  _ Ehdunno.  _ Four words slurred and blended together to create one of the most  _ revolting  _ sounds Ryuji could ever remember--a sound of defeat and succumbing to demons in the form of a slow and burning liquid death; drowning _ ,  _ perhaps. 

_ \--Hey Dad you okay Ehdunno Hey uh Dad think we can hit the battin’ cages today Ehdunno Um Dad remember last night Ehdunno Ya know uh how ya threw that bottle Ehdunno An’ threatened to hit Mom again after ya cussed her out Ehdunno Or umm how ya threw me into the glass shards an’ I started to bleed pretty bad Ehdunno-- _

To see the Old Man in such a state--unable to think or function or even  _ deal _ \--was just a branded part of Ryuji’s thoughts anymore. But to even  _ imagine  _ Akira in such a way... He felt a weight pull in the pit of his chest, a burning sensation rise up his throat-- _ No, no not again.  _

Akira peeled the glasses off his face and let his slender, rough hands grate against his skin, fingers raking tiredly through the thick, inky hair of his, “...Everything that I did--gettin’ piss drunk, and uh, trying to get everyone else drunk with me and pretty much forcing you to drink even if you didn’t--a-and anything else I might have said or done--”

_ Don’t be such a goddamn pussy. _

“--I-I can’t take it back, Ryuji. It’s in the past and I just can’t express how sorry I am about how much I hurt you.” Ryuji’s never heard Akira’s voice so frail, so fragile, as if ready to shatter at any further pressure. It’s...  _ weird  _ and to tell truth, the faux-blonde doesn’t like it one bit. It’s too uncharacteristic and while he appreciates the sincerity and honesty that Akira is pouring out of his skin, the hurt in his dark and tired eyes and the guilt stretching across his lips left Ryuji to feel as if the entire attitude diminished his character. He couldn’t find the means to be angry at the guy; his best friend, his leader,  _ his captor of heart.  _ Akira didn’t  _ mean  _ to hurt him, and that was the key. Akira didn’t  _ know  _ about how putrid the smell of alcohol was to him or how the taste burned him in  _ a sea of white-hot fire or how the slurred voices could grip him stone-cold and lifeless until the rise of a thick, meaty hand dropped down like a guillotine and struck straight through his heart with a singing pain, burning, burning, burning like that scent in his nose and that taste on his tongue and-- _

“—But, I’m gonna make sure it doesn’t happen again. Ever.” Suddenly, he’s back. Ryuji pushed the last part of that dejected and frail tone aside in favor of this new one--the hardened resolve and the steadfast willpower to be better, to fix what he’s broken,  _ to still be at his place by Ryuji’s side.  _ “...Will you help me with that?” 

Tears pricked the edges of Ryuji’s vision, blurring the handsome visage before him into a cascade of blacks and pales that bleeded into the dull greys of the school rooftop. He felt himself nod and croak out a pathetic, “D-Dude, o-of course.” 

The colors blended together even more now, and Ryuji felt as if he’d burst in a fit of emotion right there and then. The shadow of black and red shifted to loom over him slightly, placing a warm hand around the thick, sturdy shoulder of his. 

It’s the same shoulder from the other night, except this time, Ryuji feels concern and warmth where an icy vice grip once was.  _ This  _ was the Akira he knew. 

How dare he even think for a  _ second  _ that Akira could be like the Old Man... 

A mangled sob suffocated the punk and he spat out a pathetic noise, finally deciding to open the floodgates, “L-Look, I... I r-really flipped m’shit, m-man...” Ryuji let his gaze fall onto his hands, thick and sturdy, now trembling with emotion. The sun’s warm rays catching the skin just right, Ryuji could still see the faint scars on his palms, marking where he’d plummeted into various oceans of shimmering glass shards and bent bottle caps at some point in his youth. “Y’all were jus’... t-tryin’ to have a good time, bro... a-an’ I-I ruined it an’...”

“Ryuji,” The warm grip on his shoulder moved in a loose circle, calming and soothing him. The young punk closed his eyes and forced himself to focus on the touch, the rhythmic movement of Akira’s hand grazing the thick fabric of the blazer, “You had every right to be upset with me, and I mean it. How I acted wasn’t right and it sure as hell wasn’t responsible--” 

Ryuji cut him off with a sharp shake of his head, hearing the other’s voice fade off into the cool afternoon air as a breeze drifted between them, “M-Man, it... it ain’t you... It’s jus’, if it weren’t for, well... some things... an’ uh...” He  _ wants  _ to explode. He can feel the pressure building and building inside of his chest and swirling in his gut and jolting throughout the nerves of his legs, even the battered and beaten one. Everything is building up--from Akira’s touch, to the memories of the scars all along his hands, to the tears blotting out his vision, to the conversation right at the tip of the turning point--

\--And yet, Ryuji can’t go on. He can sense another pair of eyes watching and another set of ears listening and automatically, he shuts down. It’s an act of defense, fortified after years of  _ no one cares, Sakamoto  _ and  _ goddamnit shut the hell up, kid  _ and  _ aww look he’s gonna cry about it now haha  _ and just too many people who  _ will never know what the actual fuck it’s like survive--not just endure, but survive-- _ two  _ fronts of an actual, living hell where everything is taken away from you when all you’ve done was do the right thing and yet you still get punished and beaten and belittled and honestly why’s it matter anymore fuck it I don’t care anymore I really don’t care anymore and-- _

The movement on his shoulder stopped, and the warm touch peeled away with a puffy and teary eyed Ryuji having watched the blotch of black and pale rise from his seat and take the school bag in his hand-- _ fuck-- _ and move towards the door-- _ please don’t leave.  _ He screwed his eyes shut and let another sob violently rock his frame, fists curling tightly against the rickety old wooden table before him. Breathe-- _ Everyone leaves-- _ Breathe-- _ No one bothers to come back-- _ Breathe-- _ Why should they? An effin’ screw up like me?-- _ Breathe-- _ Can’t do shit right-- _ Breathe-- _ Wish Dad would’ve jus’ gone ahead an’ offed m-- _

“Ryuji.” The voice was so concrete and absolute it caused his sore, red eyes to snap open to the bright, sinking sunlight stretching across his hands-- _ Akira’s hands _ , spread warmly and securely around his trembling own fists. Through the haze of tears, Ryuji could see a calm, polite smile that almost seemed to melt the darkness around him. The voice rang again, a deafening bell tolling in his ears yet in reality it was no more than a mere whisper, “Whatever you wanna say, you can say it. Morgana can’t hear us from all the way over there.” 

A tired gaze glanced over the shoulder of the disheveled young teen, peeling a hand away from the radiant warmth to wipe away fresh tears and watch the black Shujin bag rustle along the slate grey of the outside wall. For the first time in over a day, Ryuji could feel a soft chuckle creep past his lips. “A-An’... if he g-gets out...?” 

“He won’t.” Ryuji feels a literal weight lift from inside his chest at the lightheartedness waltzing in Akira’s voice, “Cats can be sly, yeah, but Morgana isn’t a Trickster like me.” 

Damn, it feels so  _ great  _ to smile again, Ryuji noticed, and soaked in the light, joking tone of the air around them; the radiant warmth of the sun’s bright orange rays against his skin, and the ebbing heat pouring from Akira’s hands still latched onto his locked fist on the table. Despite feeling good at the very moment, he knew he needed to press on. 

Ryuji, not sure of what to do with the free hand, let the rough limb gravitate back towards Akira’s long, sturdy fingers; thick, weathered fingers of his own curling around the soft skin, steeling himself to continue. “...Right, uh... R-Remember how I, uh... I told you ‘bout m-my parents... W-We were trainin’ the one day an’, uh... I jus’... I brought it up ‘cuz that b-bastard K-Kamoshida...” He felt Akira’s grip on his hands shift, not to pull away but almost as if a light squeeze of encouragement--a silent  _ I’m here and I’m listening _ . Breathe, Sakamoto. Breathe. “I-I told ya... ‘bout my dad an’ all... d-drunk ass s-s-sonuvabitch... an’... an’ how he-he’d...” Ryuji  _ wanted  _ to close his eyes and let the world around him melt away into oblivion, but he realized what would take its place--the old house, the smell of stale whiskey, the sharp pain of broken glass, the screams tearing apart his throat, the loud sobs that made it hard to breathe--and he’d lose every ounce of progress he’d made in the past few days. 

Instead, Ryuji forced himself to focus his gaze into Akira’s dark eyes, with his glasses still sitting unused on the table; usually inky blacks were now suddenly warm, melted caramels in the sinking sunlight. 

_ Yeah, yeah, this is much better.  _

Ryuji forced himself to continue, but Akira’s study, low tone beat him to it, “...You said he hit you... right?” 

Akira remembered. Of course he remembered. That afternoon at school, how Ryuji just let the surface of his issues bubble and bluster out into the open like that. It felt so... natural. Yet, despite his over exuberant personality and eagerness to speak whatever came to mind, he never felt the need to talk about  _ that;  _ about his home life, about his guilt-ridden mother and his asshole father and how Ryuji himself felt responsible for literally  _ everything  _ that happened to him--to  _ them.  _ To Mom, to the track team, and now to the Phantom Thieves at times.

But to open up to Akira so quickly, so reassuringly, it just felt right. Akira was the beacon of light in a dark tunnel, the sunrise after a long night, the distant island in a choppy, endless ocean. It felt as if Akira was the literal embodiment of  _ everything’s going to be okay,  _ something Ryuji had  _ craved  _ for a vast majority of his life. 

And here it was. Here  _ he  _ was. 

The tears welled up in his vision again as he felt himself nod, “Y-Yeah... Me an’ my Mom both. He... H-He went after her w-way more... ‘cuz he knew s-she wouldn’t fight b-b-back... Effin’ prick... A-An’ w-when I got older, st-started seein’ somethin’ wasn’t right, I... I’d f-fight back an’, y’know... protect her...” God, his voice was mangled, distorted with the powerful sobs that rattled his spine and trembled his hands and shot that sharp pain up his bad leg. His heart pounded in his chest, riddled with underlying anger and rage at the branded image of a drunken, raised hand striking his mother.

Over. 

And over.

And over again. 

Ryuji felt another sob linger in his throat, tightening his airways to breathe, but another soft squeeze, far more noticeable this time--melted away that lump of fear, of panic, of anger, of whatever-the-hell kept him tied down this long. “T-That’s all he did... Drink an’ beat... D-Drink an’ beat...” 

There was a new look in Akira’s eyes, and Ryuji noted it immediately as  _ guilt. _ Akira wasn’t dumb. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that anyone who had bad associations with alcohol wouldn’t fare well with a shitfaced drunkard. That hardened look in his eyes wavered as the teary-eyed punk continued, unable to stop the floodgates now, “Goddamn... Effin’ b-bastard th-threw punches... kicks... b-broke bottles... s-spat an’ cussed a-an’ yelled... It... It sc-scared us... S-Scared th’ shit o-outta me, man...!” 

Ryuji steeled himself to bring the next set of words out past his lips as he caught the guilty gaze of the other male across from him. Crackled voice peppered with seriousness through the sobs, “So... when y-you... w-were gettin’ shitfaced, man... I... It s-scared me... I-I couldn’t h-handle it...” 

His eyes flinch shut habitually, and the scene from that night replayed over and over in his head with Akira, a malicious look in his eyes and a voice that feels too far distorted to even be close to his, reeking if the scent of alcohol, edging him closer and closer to that horrid plastic cup _ —Even if some o’ ‘em don’t feel like bein’ a part o’ a celebration Nah I’m alright man just calm down— _

His throat burning, suffocating him, choking him into a bumbling, fearful mess.

_ —Jus’ have uh toas’ w’ me, man Akira dude this ain’t you— _

He needed to leave and go home and hug his mom and take some time to himself.

_ —Dude, y’ ain’t really bein’ uh te’m playa righ’ now— _

He needed to forget, to drown out the thoughts, to burn the  _ images _ away—

— _ Don’t be such a goddamn pussy. _

Fuck you...!

Ryuji awaited the hit, his mind’s eye projecting a vicious, looming shadow above him ready to strike.  _ Goddamn pathetic _ , he was, just sitting there crying,  _ sobbing,  _ trembling,  _ useless like the piece of shit he was. _

There was a hard squeeze that clenched over his hands, a soft voice that entangled him like a comforting blanket, “Ryuji...”

_ Mom...? _

_ Mom I’m sorry. I wasn’t fast enough to stop him. I— _

“Ryuji...!” Earthy brown eyes opened to catch a glimmer of hardened resolve like polished steel in Akira’s eyes. The boy’s jaw was tense, as if pressure was building in the muscles that held him together and yet, all the while, his touch around Ryuji’s white-knuckled fists, hard and quivering, was light as a feather. It took the young punk every ounce of strength to not fling himself across the table and into the stable, steady arms of salvation. “I... I’m so sorry...”

Ryuji blinked away the tears and let his blurry vision steady into focus, taking sudden note of the glimmer glossing over in Akira’s eyes. 

He’d never seen Akira cry.

Ever. 

It only made Ryuji feel ever worse and finally, as if a primal urge, he let out a painful wail of a sob he’d be holding back this entire time, as if chained and barred to rusty shackles. 

“Ryuji, I’m... I didn’t even think about what you’d told me before, I didn’t even consider it...” A hardened squeeze of the hands, rough palms to chapped knuckles. “L-Look, next time we throw a big celebration—no booze, no shit, just... just a good, honest time. We’ll stick with j-just piggin’ out and s-stuffin’ our faces in, huh?” 

There it was, that smile. That radiant smile where the pearly whites of Akira’s teeth shone brightly in honest to goodness compassion that captivated Ryuji since the day they met. That smile that told him that everything was going to be okay. That smile that told him he’d be safe at this rightful place with his leader by his side. Ryuji felt himself nod like an idiot, fumbling through the motion as he stifled a sniffle. “It’ll actually be a good time. I promise.”

“Heh... thanks man...!” Akira made it so effortless to just dissipate the darkness and dispel the fears and wash away the pain with a mere perk of the lips. 

Ryuji, still misty-eyed and fumbling at wiping away the last of the tears that cascaded down his reddened cheeks, hadn’t paid attention to the movement of Akira exchanging his grip on loosening fists for a sly shift around the side of the table, glasses finally snatched in the process, and a firm toss of a looped arm around slumped shoulders, hoisting the faux-blonde out of the seat in a playful motion. 

“C’mon man,” Akira chuckled, lifting a hand of his own to wipe away a stray tear on his porcelain face, “It’s gettin’ late. Let’s go get some ramen, yeah? My treat.” 

Ryuji instantly split open into a wide, childish grin at the offer. He’d never, ever say no to a fresh bowl or two with his best guy. He’d opened his mouth, already diving straight into the offer, but he paused. “Hm... O-One more thing, quick--sorry!” Akira raised a hesitant brow and let the hand slip from Ryuji’s shoulder, slithering back quietly into the pockets of his uniform pants. “H-Heh, don’t worry! I ain’t gonna cry again! But, uh... ya said durin’ a meeting once that, uh... no one’s s’pose to go to Momentos alone... right?” 

“Ryuji, please don’t tell me you went in--” 

“Nononono!” Rough hands waved feverishly in the dimming orange sunlight over the horizon, licked impatiently by a cooling breeze that raced across the rooftop. “I ain’t done shit! But! But, uh... I just... Think you could do me a huge favor an’ uh, we go in together sometime soon? Just us.” 

There was a look of suspicion lingering in Akira’s still-redden eyes, studying and observing the enthusiastic outcast. “W-Why do yo--?” 

Akira didn’t finish. The look of questioning melted away into one of partial understanding as Ryuji felt him meet with the fire and burning determination in his eyes. The punk could almost  _ feel  _ the adrenaline rush through his veins at the thought--his scheming plan he only  _ wished  _ he could have done  _ ages  _ ago. 

“...There’s someone’s heart that needs t’ be changed.”

Akira’s stern expression dissolved into one of mere understanding after a long, pensive moment. Any trek into Momentos was always dangerous, especially with fewer numbers. To the tearful teen, however, this was more than just another mission, more than just request, more than just  _ helping  _ someone. 

It was imperative that  _ this _ change of heart be completed. 

At the sight of Akira’s-- _ Joker’s-- _ crooked smirk, Ryuji moved to happily reloop a muscular arm around the y’all boy’s shoulders, grinning excitedly, “And nooooooow, you said  _ ramen?  _ Huh?” 

* * *

The sun had since gone down and the air had chilled to a frigid crisp as Ryuji shut the front door behind him. He’d surveyed the small living space around him and couldn’t stop the slight snort of a chuckle as he noticed his dear mother passed out, fast asleep on the couch with a pair of chopsticks still in her hand and the TV still flickering across the dim living room. Quietly and swiftly, Ryuji plucked the sticks from her slender hands, turned off the bulky old TV, and moved to draw a clean blanket over her slumbering frame. 

Proud of his stealthy handiwork, the young punk leaned down to press a peck of a kiss onto the crown of her head, a wide grin stretching across his face as he moved to turn off the light and head up towards his own room, “Sleep tight, Mom. Shit’ll get better soon, I promise...” 

With every step he took up the stairs, he could almost  _ feel  _ the electricity surge through his veins,  _ hear _ Captain Kidd’s hearty bellow of a warcry, or  _ see  _ the swift crack of the metal pipe crash into the same putrid, disgusting face that branded itself darkly into his thoughts, his memories.

Whenever Akira was ready to go, it was Game On. 

Until then, Ryuji simply tucked himself into his bed and counted down the moments like sheep jumping a fence, one by one, minute by minute. 

He fell asleep with a pleased and thankful smile on his face for the first time in a long,  _ long  _ while. 


	3. Crimson Pools of Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryuji's always been a rather "blast first, ask questions later" kinda kid.   
> So when he's presented with a serious life choice, a golden opportunity, does he take it? Or does he let it slip like the soft sand of an island beach though his fingers...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hgggggnnnnnnn well here it is! The thrilling, captivating and really goddamn wildly emotional conclusion to this little trilogy! I hope you guys like it, and I'd like to apologize for any kind of grammar errors or choppy plot progression just in case because at times I wasn't sure where to take this and other times I swear the fingers just moved on their own! Hohoho~
> 
> Enjoy, and thanks for sticking around this long! I really appreciate it!

Everything was a rather bleak and lackluster grey, from the the weathered concrete of the school rooftop to the dull overcast that hung low like a canopy in the sky. 

Unlike the stillness of the environment around him, Ryuji stood brooding and towering over the rickety old table with his emotions a whirling torrent deep within his gut. His fingers rapped against the splintered wood and his bad leg jostled restlessly beneath him. 

He didn’t even realize that he’d been waiting for this moment for most of his life. 

Behind him, Ryuji heard the loud creak of the thick metal door to the stairwell inside. Quiet and slick on his feet, Akira slipped out from the shadowy inside and walked over, tossing his bag up haphazardly onto the table. The bag crumpled upon itself as it settled into place;  _ no cat. _

“Hey, uh... Where’s Mona...?” 

Akira bit back a soft chuckle, “With Ann.” Ryuji blinked, taken by such a simple answer but he continued, “I tossed a couple yen her way to take him out for sushi or whatever while we’re gone.”

Ryuji scoffed and shook his head with a slight smile but didn’t say anything. His fingers stilled drummed against wood and his leg still wobbled violently like a piston ready to burst out of the socket of an engine. 

The two boys stood in dreary, still silence until Akira spoke again in a soft whisper of a voice, “...You still wanna do this?”

Of course. Ryuji wanted to—he  _ needed  _ to after all these years of silent neglect—but the question that lingered in his head really was more like ‘ _ Are you ready?’ _

Oddly enough, every previous trek into Momentos, every palace, every distorted heart stolen and every trial he faced, really and truly did get easier with time; determination overriding fear and adrenaline trampling nervous anxiety. 

Not this time. 

Ryuji’s thick fingers reached for the phone in his pocket and pulled it out, letting the weight shift in his rough palm. He caught sight of that  _ horrid, ugly mug of his  _ in the reflection. 

_ Get ready... _

He needed this. Perhaps it was a sense of Captain Kidd’s profound power that surged through his veins like lightning and nipped at the ends of his nerves. Perhaps it was the pride of  _ knowing  _ he wielded the power to stand back up for himself— _ for his mother.  _

_...This time, I ain’t gonna hold back... _

Perhaps it was revenge, from him, from his mother too, from anyone else who may have had the misfortune to stare into those dark, soulless eyes.

... _ I ain’t gonna wave anymore white flags, ya bastard... _

Perhaps it was just, well, everything: A lost innocence, a stolen childhood, a broken household, a tortured life, a crumbling future—

... _ I’ll effin’ ruin you, Old Man _ .  _ Just like you did to me. _

Ryuji peeled his eyes up from the phone, and let himself melt away comfortably in Akira’s gaze. He felt the tension in his shoulders loosen, the grip of the splintered table in his free hand release and the rapid fire thumping of his leg slow to a rhythmic sway. 

“Y-Yeah...” Ryuji, letting a wave of confidence and determination roll onto him, flashed the other a smug grin, “Let’s do this, man!”

Akira smiled back; his own smug, Cheshire grin growing wide as the world around the two of them warped and melted away at the single tap of a screen. The bleak overcast bubbled into an oozing canopy of inky black, dim subway lights covered by the shadowy overgrowth and the slate concrete of the school building beneath them dropped away into sketchy railway tracks that dipped and dived into every direction.

There was always something odd about the air in Momentos, Ryuji— _ Skull,  _ now, as the blue blazed flames died down to the tight grip of leather wrapped around his broad shoulders in an affirming touch—drew in a deep, hard breath as if to grow acclimated into the new environment they’d plunged into.  _ Joker  _ seemed unphased and resilient as usual.

Armed only with their wits, their weapons, their own Personas and the horribly botched navigation of the otherworldly app compared to Mona’s skillful eye (not that Skull would  _ ever  _ admit that), the two thieves slipped slyly and quietly among the inky, pooling darkness of Momentos, careful to avoid the watchful eyes of any lingering Shadows. 

Not a single word was spoken for a long, thoughtful while as the phone buzzed on and off in Skull’s gloved hand, the ebbingly cold steel of a metal pipe in the other--five floors... four floors... three floors...

Skull’s head suddenly felt fuzzy as a voice overcame him in a deafening echo, “ _ Thou have waited a long while for this reunion, I can sense it.”  _ Skull couldn’t even begin to count how many years he’d stopped hearing the sounds of glass shattering against the kitchen wall or how many years his mother started coming home late ragged and exhausted or how many years he’d gone with scrutinizing eyes glaring daggers at him because he wanted someone-- _ anyone-- _ to hear his cries, his pleas, his  _ pitiful sorrows  _ of life. _ “The same anger, raw and unfiltered, surges through your veins and pounds at thy heart. It is the power which fuels the vows of our rebellion.”  _ Power: a non-physical weapon, really. Skull hardly felt the buzzing of the phone in his palm as his mind trailed off abstractly. Power. What the hell even  _ was  _ power? What dictated that one person ranks higher on any platform than another? Money? Strength? Attitude? 

What about himself? With literal manifestations of electricity and the strength of his otherworldly self, paired with the real world athleticism and brawns he taunted, Skull now technically held power...  _ right?  _ Where did that place him in the so-called rankings? Higher than any popular kid at school? Higher than Kamoshida once was? 

...Higher than the Old Man?

The hardened voice of Captain Kidd echoed in his once more, having listened to his loose thoughts,  _ “I advise you take great caution and beware. With such great power comes--” _

_ Yeah, yeah, ‘great responsibility’ or whatever...  _ Skull inwardly scoffed, his thoughts still preoccupied with the towering, monstrous edifice that clouded his memories. Had his Persona been burrowed deep within the roots of his soul all this time? If so, then why hadn’t he awakened to Kidd’s awesome might when he’d watch his drunken father strike his frail, defenseless mother down with a hardened backhand night after night after night? Why hadn’t he felt the surge of power pump in his blood when a thick, meaty hand closed tightly around his neck, clouding his vision and cutting him free of oxygen the  _ first time? _ Why hadn’t he felt the electricity crackle down his spine and tingle the edges of his fingertips in rising anger at every lie, insult and drag spat inches from his face  _ every goddamn day?  _

_ I’ll make him pay. _

“Skull...”

“ _ I must warn you--” _

_ I’ll make that miserable bastard effin’ suffer...! _

“Hey... Can yo...?” 

_ “--I fear thou art in a distorted mind.” _

_ That goddamn son of a--! _

“Skull!” The masked blonde blinked wildly beneath his deceptive visage and snapped towards the booming voice. Beside him, Joker stood with a firm jaw, dark eyes piercing through the clouded visions of his own as he continued to speak through a sigh, “There you are...” 

“Ah, s-sorry man...” 

The tension in Joker’s shoulders seemed to drop at sound of Skull’s own voice and he tossed a nod out, “The Nav’s saying the next floor is it.” Skull stole a quizzitive glance down at the phone and sure enough, Joker was correct. The Metaverse Navigator, a tricky and complex  _ smartphone app,  _ out of all things, somehow managed to guide the two masked thieves close to their target, the phone buzzing every so often in an steady alarm: [ONE (1) TARGET WITHIN DISTANT PROXIMITY DETECTED, RANGE: ONE (1) FLOOR -DOWN- APPROX.] 

One floor away. 

One more floor until he’d come face to face with--

“Skull...” Joker’s voice was firm and steady as the leather-clad punk forced his attention solely onto his level-headed leader, “...You sure you wanna do this?” 

Skull could feel his heart pound from its spot rooted deep within his chest like an earth-shattering clap of thunder, his blood white-hot and burning in his veins like a crackling wildfire, and Captain Kidd’s limitless abilities swirling in his gut like choppy ocean waves--the young punk taking hold of the helm of his own ship in the rough storm ahead. 

He wouldn’t back out now, he  _ couldn’t.  _ Skull-- _ Ryuji-- _ had waited and begged and pleaded and cried and admittedly even  _ prayed  _ for this day to come, for the  _ ability  _ to even stand to  _ fight back  _ after all these years of neglect and abuse. 

And to think... all he needed was the Old Man’s name: Sakamoto Takashi. 

A name that  _ still  _ to this day could rock his body with a cold, vigorous shiver in fear. 

Skull tightened his grip against the cold steel of the metal pipe in his gloved hand and growled, “I’ve  _ been  _ ready...”

There was a moment of silent, fleeting understanding between Skull and Joker. Neither spoke a word or even moved into a nod but just simply  _ stared  _ deep into the fires burning bright and hot in their eyes. The faux-blonde took initiative and turned just a moment later to trek down the still, lifeless escalator—the overgrowth and only black darkness pouring from every crack of the machine; deathly earthy tones mingling awkwardly in an embrace with bright, urban sparks. 

The phone buzzed against Skull’s now trembling palm: [ONE (1) TARGET WITHIN CLOSE PROXIMITY DETECTED...]

_ Showtime. _

The two thieves pressed on deeper into the murky and muddled shadows that flooded Momentos; Skull drowning deeper and deeper into the churning tides of anxiousness and adrenaline—a deadly combination. 

He could feel his heart pound in his ears and his palms sweat beneath the grip within his gloved hands. Every step bringing him closer and closer to redemption, to payback,  _ to revenge.  _

A path opened to the left and seemed to stretch down a long, shallow corridor all alone. Skull’s heart lurched in his chest at the sight of a lone figure standing alone in the distance. “...There he is...” His voice was shallow and breathy, unable to allow Joker to really read what was running through his mind. And with good reason. It was hard to even imagine what he’d come face to face with, but before his mind could even faulter in place, Joker clapped a warm, smoothly gloved hand over his shoulder in a silent  _ whenever you’re ready...  _

Skull took a drag of stale, thick air and sighed heavily, finding the strength in his heavy boots to march along the twisting, curling tracks and moving to pocket his phone finally. With every step, his heart pounded like a drum in his ears and it felt as if a new lifetime passed before his eyes;  _ Thud-- _ Hey Dad, you sleepin’ again?-- _ Thud-- _ Ehdunno...- _ -Thud-- _ M-Mom? What’s wrong?-- _ Thud-- _ Mom, why ya cryin’?-- _ Thud-- _ It’s n-nothing, Juju-- _ THUD--  _ Ya  _ goddamn  _ piece o’ shit!-- _ THUD _ \--I-I’m sorry! I’m sorry! It won’t happen again!-- _ THUD-- _ Who’n th’ _ fuck  _ told ya t’ speak, boy?-- _ THUD _ \--

_ Juju... Run.  _

No more running. No more hiding. No more cowering in fear and wishing it all away. 

No more diving to take the late hits. No more sacrificing. No more  _ if it ain’t me, then she’ll get it.  _

No more. 

Because it ended  _ now. Finally. _

“Hey, asshole!” Skull bellowed from behind his mask, voice crackling at the tension stringing in his muscles and the fingers tightening around his steel weapon. As the tall, straggling figure turned to it’s beckoning call, Skull caught a glimpse of glazed, golden eyes burning distantly deep within his distorted soul and only then, felt as if he couldn’t breathe.

Nothing had changed. Years of growth and development and suddenly it felt as if Skull-- _ Ryuji-- _ was but a small boy once more; defenseless and cowering. Those eyes, cold and distant, held a strange polish to them that looked as if finished with a fine gloss, gleaming in the even the dimmest of lights; that same upward sneer of the lips tugged at the dry, cracked corners in anger, hidden behind an uneven shave; that thick edge of a hard jaw peppered with stubble locked like the barrel of a gun, ready to crack with even the slightest flex of the muscle; thick brows furrowed together in a permanent bunch, wrinkling the elder’s face into a deep abyss of shadows--All of it the same as when he was younger.

Between the crooked twerk of the lips and the disheveled hair, albeit darker than the deepest inky crevice in Momentos compared to the sun’s synthetic golden rays of his own, he felt as if he were staring at his own reflection, disgusted and appalled.  _ Ryuji  _ could feel his stomach churn violently at the thought;  _ Skull  _ could feel the electricity shoot rapidly through his veins to tingle the tips of his nerves. A hearty bellow echoed in his mind, drowning out Joker’s smooth but firmly challenging voice with words that never even reached the punk’s ears. 

_ Cap’n, I am thou... Thou art I... _

“Phan’om Thieves, eh?”  _ Ryuji  _ nearly flinched on impulse at the slurred voice, the old man’s sandpaper voice grating with so much pressure against his ears.  _ Skull  _ found himself gritting his teeth in bubbling anger, biting his tongue as if it were the chains restricting a wild beast, ready to strike. “Y’all jus’ kids...! S’that some way ya talk t’ya go’damn elders, kids...?” 

Skull made a move to let the fingers of his free hand slip beneath the brim of his mask, ready to summon the great oceans of power behind it--

\--when he felt his legs,  _ both  _ of them, crumple from under him; a sharp pain radiating from where the Shadow’s fist connected with his own gut. Hands quick to release and the sound of clattering metal as Skull felt the damp cold seep into his gasp, palms spread to keep him from sinking any further. 

He heard a shout ear partially to his ears as if played on broken speakers--Joker, no doubt--and suddenly felt the warmth of the fire licking the thick air around him off to the side--warm, but never  _ hot to the touch:  _ Arsene’s summoning. 

Skull felt a revitalizing wave wash over him in light and he glanced up, suddenly feeling  _ so goddamn small.  _ He felt as if he were a little boy again,  _ waiting, waiting, waiting for— _

_ “Thou have the potential for change... Take the helm!” _

The electricity shot though his muscles, through his veins and his bones and Skull snapped up onto his feet with a newfound determination, chocolate eyes suddenly bubbling with a hardened excitement.  _ Waiting  _ for his punishment was over.  _ Never again.  _

_ “ _ G-Goddamn pain in... heh... pain in m’ass, kid!” The garbled voice of the elder cried out, growing warped and distorted as his human figure began to break free into a gruesome, towering figure of chiseled, solid gold and ruby red eyes shining like encrusted gems. The shadow let out a vicious roar, “I-I’ll teach you, ya sonunva bitch!” 

Skull snapped, roaring a vicious cry as he charged headfirst and swung the metal pipe in his hands with tight muscles; so much vigor and so much raw force, the Shadow  _ should  _ had toppled and staggered in amazement. 

And yet, it didn’t budge. The recoil from the unwavering hit sent a hard shockwave back through the pipe and down the boy’s arms as he cried out. Shit. Skull glanced up and stared in awe at the solid ruby red eyes boring into him, feeling lifeless and void as he felt himself slip into the endless glimmer. 

And suddenly he’s back on the cold, damp ground, face down against the uneven, rocky terrain as he heard Joker’s firm voice call out. Guess physical attacks wouldn’t cut it. 

Skull spat, a dark color welling against the ground and it wasn’t entirely too sure if it was blood or what, but he paid it no mind as he staggered back onto his feet. A gloved hand reached for the heavy mask upon his face, smooth leather soaking in the beads of sweat forming on the soft skin of his temples and his heart beating rapidly into his ears. Frantic fingers prying the cool metal away from hot flesh, digging deeper and deeper as the blue blazed flames began to lick haphazardly at his feet.

Digging, digging... 

“Captain...!”

_ Thump, thump, thump...! _

“...Kiiiiiiidd!” 

The flames roared with a beautiful blast of blues and whites as Skull cried out, his vision wavering as he felt his body go numb with the familiar tingling of electricity and thunder pounding hard in his ears. The thick mask--a skull’s face, a rebellious icon--burned wildly in his hand as he watched the strikes of lightning rain down upon the golden figure, crackling and popping with every spark. 

Kidd’s power always rocked Skull in a strange way that he could never describe and he’d come to  _ enjoy  _ the feeling--but this just different. Perhaps it was the circumstance, or perhaps it was the pent anger and frustration bound together with years of fear and self-pity and now,  _ only now,  _ is it breaking free of the chains that restrained it for so long. Regardless, Skull wasn’t just  _ enjoying  _ the feeling of shocking electricity in his veins and the dull, ebbing pain in his bloodied brow where the mask once sat--he felt invigorated _ , intoxicated,  _ even. 

_ This  _ is what it was like to have true, undaunting power. 

Skull didn’t dare waste a second, his mind swirling into overdrive as he heard Joker beckon to Arsene beside him, “Ravage him!” The beast cloaked in those sapphire flames moved elegantly; large, ravenous wings bellowing a strong, forceful gale paired with that steel-plated voice of it’s commander that rasped in his throat, hungry with determination. 

_ “A strong gale... A storm is approaching...”  _

Skull felt his lips crack into a devilish smirk as he cried out, his voice clawing against the raw skin of his throat as his weathered persona unleashed another wave of jaggid lightning. 

A horrible storm on rough seas.  _ This  _ captain will make it out alive. 

The golden figure staggered, whipped and battered with the elements attacking on all fronts--from the sides, above, behind, right in between it’s eyes. The Shadow cried a booming wail, the ground beneath the two thieves trembling slightly as it charged forth with clenched fists, tightened muscles screaming at the tension and barred teeth grit hard enough to crack. 

Straight to the both of them. 

Suddenly, Skull swore he felt time slow to painful slither, unable to do anything but watch as his body acted on pure impulse. His eyes were trained on Joker, a firm and fortified figure letting his body twist and crumple in a defensive movement. Was he dodging? Was he blunting the impact? No matter how much closer Skull felt himself move at the pounding of his own thick boots against the ground, it was hard to tell. Not that it mattered. He watched as Joker screwed his eyes shut behind the bloodied marks were his mask once was,  _ waiting.  _

_ No more waiting...!  _

The embrace of thick leather gathered in his arms and suddenly the overwhelming scent of musk and sweat hit him--or so it seemed. Skull clenched his own eyes shut and suddenly, still lingering in the crawling time, was left completely in the dark. He felt weightless all of a sudden, gravity no longer a factor as the heaviness in his feet left him. Is he falling? Was he hit? Everything is uncertain in the moment. Still, the warmth nestled in his arms and burrowed into the side of his face was more than assuring. Not to mention the faint and distant scent of coffee beans buried behind that stench of sweat is so  _ nice.  _

Underneath all the layers, all the masks that  _ Joker  _ wears,  _ Akira  _ is still there. 

A violent quake rattled Skull’s thoughts, at his entire world in the same moment. The other half of his face that wasn’t pressed tight against the slick leather coat grazed roughly against the cold, damp ground once more.

Time resumed as normal, evident of the cadence of his heartbeat pounding deafeningly in his ears. Moments later, it melted away into sharp, staccato breaths. Sweat slicked face peeling away from the dusty leather to glance down at the boy, faithful Leader, to see that  _ thank God  _ he was unharmed  _ yes _ , saved for a few slight scuffs--Skull sighed in a fleeting moment of peace. 

And then there was movement. Behind him, the Shadow groaned, a distorted sound that felt off like when an old weathered record player that’d seen far better days begins to play a crooked, warped tune. 

The fight wasn’t over. Skull moved to peel himself up off the battered thief and watched for a moment, that familiar feeling of thunder in his ears and lightning racing in his bones-- _ gone.  _ Was it fear? Was it uncertainty? Was it annoyance? 

“Skull.” Joker’s voice suddenly cut right through him off to the side and it snapped the young punk’s attention back. Picking himself up off the ground, Joker moved to wipe his face with his sleeve, the matted blood igniting back into the shape of a monotone mask over his fiery, steel-plated eyes. In the next moment, the same hand wrapped itself firmly around Skull’s wrist, “C-C’mon... Let’s finish this...!” 

As suddenly as if had left, the energy shot right through him, invigorating him and reheightening his senses. Skull smirked proudly and moved to hoist Joker back onto his feet, the deadly combo of lightning-tingled fingertips meeting fiery white-hot hands only energizing the punk even  _ more,  _ his focus steadying. The Shadow roared  a seering, deafening sound and Skull felt himself tighten his grip on his pipe after he snatched it up from the ground below. 

_ Three...  _

He could his Persona howl deep within his soul. Kidd’s hearty bellow was but another instrument in the orchestra that clammered in his mind; there was the drumline of his quickening heartbeat and the fluttery, tingly lightness of the electricity crackling throughout him. Sometimes, Skull’s own ragged breath made a cameo with it’s own, freeform solo. Other times, the Old Man caused a disturbance...

_ Two... _

_ Pairs of trembling hands yanking at the collar of his uniform and toss him aside and Stay t’hell down! and  _ No. Not today.  _ Th’fuck ya talkin’ ‘bout?! The Old Man staggers forward and topples into bright, blue flames and suddenly the boy smirks wickedly with a  _ You stay the hell down ya bastard.  _ The Old Man is furious in his drunken stupor and tries to stagger to his feet as the boy picks himself up and tosses a snap of his wrist--sparks of lightning and a booming thunder rock the tiny home as a bolt directly strikes the crown of the Old Man’s head and his thinning hair burns and his flesh singes with thick white smoke and a frightened middle aged woman crying off towards the side and the boy drops his hand and rushes to her side with a warm  _ It’s okay Mom... 

He can’t hurt us anymore. 

_ One...  _

Kidd bellowed out a hearty tone of warning that rattled the deepest pit of Skull’s chest, but it was drowned out with the inner lust of visions of destruction and mayhem;  _ revenge. He can’t hurt us anymore.  _ Everything is flushed out--the stale air of Mementos, the grumbling growl of the golden Shadow, Joker’s breathing beside him, his own heartbeat--all of that melted away at the vision of the Old Man just...  _ disappearing. He can’t hurt us anymore.  _ Physically he was gone, never to show his face again. But the scars wouldn’t heal and they’d never fade, neither for him nor his mother who always came home with sunken eyes and dark bags stamped onto her face, with exhaustion cradling her and luring her to forget the outside world no matter how strong of a facade of a smile she’s built up in her son’s presence.  _ Ryuji  _ wasn’t stupid. He knew that tactic because he’d adopted the  _ very same  _ habit himself, fake smiles and empty chuckles that covered up the pain and the hurt like a cheap bandage.  _ He can’t hurt us anymore.  _

No. Not anymore. 

“Now!” Joker’s voice cried out and to Skull it was as if the rusted chains holding him back had snapped and crumbled apart, releasing this feral beast that was hungry with anger, hungry with primal rage. 

Everything was but colors and blurs. The black, inky ground below him and the walls that surrounded them; speckles of red--bright scarlet accents of Mementos and thick dark crimsons of blood--dotting the scenery around him; gold, gold,  _ gold,  _ all tarnishing and growing lackluster with every swing and every hit that connected and ricocheted back through his bones. His chest rumbled again, most likely another plea from his Persona to  _ beware.  _ Skull drowned it out with his own, gritty scream as he swung the metal pipe once more. His voice tore at the flesh of his own throat, his blood pumped vigorously through his strained body with every distant heartbeat, his muscles stretching and flexing in ways no human truthfully should had been able to move.

He’d feel the strain on his body tomorrow, sure. That wasn’t now. Now was the adrenaline in his blood and the heart pounding wildly in his chest and his vision blurring to mere blotches of color and the constant numbness from the recoil shooting up into his arms with every hit and Skull  _ loved it _ \--he felt invincible, capable of toppling the darkness and his fears and letting all the caged emotion run free and--

Skull swung again, but didn’t connect and suddenly, he’d returned to his senses with ragged breaths. Before him, the last of the glimmering gold melted away into an inky black puddle of goo, bubbling and festering like an old witches’ cauldron. Slowly, the mass dripped and dried onto the damp ground below, leaving behind a petrified and sobbing mess of a human being--

_ \--Sakamoto Takashi. _

Skull’s--no,  _ Ryuji’s-- _ mind went blank. What he was seeing before him was something of a forbidden scene. The same  _ coward  _ that struck with closed fists and spat in the faces of those smaller than him, now sniveled on grimy hands and knees,  _ begging  _ for forgiveness. 

He finally, after so many years,  _ finally  _ got what he’d wanted... but what was he to do with it? 

The faux-blonde felt himself move, numb to the feeling of his feet pushing against the ground or the weight of the mask suddenly igniting back over his eyes. He could barely even make out the words spoken by Joker, “What do you think?” 

What do you think?

_... _ What  _ did  _ Skull think? 

It was tough to form any cognitive thought, let alone words to verbally speak, but as Skull stood directly in front of the sobbing, broken mess of a figure, he felt a strange surge of pride wash over him. It took the empty, moldable thoughts into its own hands and put the idea front and center into Skull’s head. He found himself smirking devilishly. 

“ _ Do not do it...”  _

Takashi’s body trembled with outstanding force as he croaked out a mangled apology, the earnest guilt eating at his distorted voice, “...I-I’m sorry... I’m so sorry--”

“Cut the shit.” Skull, snapped, reaching down to gather a handful of fabric into one of his leather-bound hands. The pitiful gaze of golden, otherworldly eyes, puffy and red from the tears, started blindly at him like a deer in headlights. A voice other than Kidd’s echoed in the back of his head and it took him a good solid moment to realize  _ it was his own: So, that’s what I used to look like...  _ “Do you have  _ any  _ idea what kind of a hell you put me an’ Mom through?! Huh?” 

A weeping Takashi merely blinked as more tears welled in his eyes. He blinked a couple times before a look of suspended disbelief washed over him in a new revelation and he sputtered, “R-Ryuji...?” 

Skull was growing far too impatient. He cried out a raw, spiteful yell as he tossed the elder back onto the ground, “ _ Do you?!” _

_ “I hath said, do not do it.”  _

_ Shut th’ fuck up, Cap’n. Stay outta this. _

Skull watched as Takashi nodded desperately, choking horribly on his own crackled sobs and regret and despair. He listened to the distorted tone reach his ears, “W-Wh...What should I do now...?” The young punk blinked and watched quietly, silently like a hunter settling on its prey.  _ Waiting, waiting, waiting...  _ Takashi continued through intermittent sniffles, “H-How can I-I-I make this up t-t-to you, t-t-to your mother--?”

A single word comes to mind and Skull lets the syllables slip past his tongue, “Disappear.” 

Takashi blinked. 

The electrifying Persona trembled again in rising anger, “ _ Listen! Thou must not act rash!”  _

“Did ya hear me?” Skull spoke without any bounce of life in his voice, a lackluster tone that sounded far too abstract for him. His knuckles tightened over his grip on the metal pipe, letting the cold steel brush lightly against the flushed face of their target before finally pausing at the indent of his temple off towards the side

“ _ Thou must stop! These actions are not pure of heart!” _

“I said,  _ fuckin’ disappear,  _ goddamnit!” 

Skull snapped back in a single motion, the gleaming steel pipe raised high above his matted blonde hair as he took in the slight before him. Takashi--the  _ bastard  _ shit of the Old Man--on his knees, crying, pleading,  _ begging.  _ It’s a strange feeling that Skull felt himself growing intoxicated on, not by alcohol, not by charm or deception, but raw,  _ pure power.  _ He could feel himself slipping and falling deeper and deeper into the murky abyss, growing lost in the sensation and he makes no move to swim towards the surface because  _ he likes it.  _

_ The moment he’s wanted since he was a young child. _

_ It’s finally here.  _

_ “Stop it--!”  _

Skull’s arms dropped the second he felt embrace him and knock him off balance, staggering a few steps over and feeling the pipe connect bluntly with the hard ground with a dull  _ THUD.  _

Caramel eyes snapped up to see a wide-eyed Joker just inches from him, sturdy arms wrapped tightly around his own slender frame in defense. 

_ The moment he’s wanted since he was a young child.  _

_ It’s gone.  _

“W-What th’ _ fuck _ ?!” Skull spat, reaching a hand up to try and break the embrace. 

Joker spoke back in a tone that cut just as hard, “I should be askin’ you that--you outta your damn mind?!” 

“Let  _ go of me,  _ Joker!” 

“His heart’s been changed! We’re done!”

“God _ damnit,  _ let go! _ ” _

“Skull!” 

“I-I said--!” 

“Ryuji...” Skull froze on the spot. That same, knife-edge voice suddenly died down at a soft, lulling tone of great concern. He can see it in Joker’s— _ Akira’s— _ eyes, there’s hurt, there’s concern, there’s... 

_ Fear. _

It’s there, but it’s only a fraction compared to the pure  _ terror  _ on Takashi’s face. 

_ Oh God... _ The realization began to seep into the young punk, his fingers loosening to let the slick metal weapon clammer to the ground with a hard ringing sound. He felt himself begin to tremble, locked in place only by Joker’s soft gloved hands racing to grab a hold of the sides of his face. “You’re not like him.” 

Four words. That’s all it took for Skull to begin crying, tears welling up behind his mask and the sobs sticking to the edges of his sore, raspy throat. “B-But... But I almost--” 

“You’re not like him.” Joker repeated sternly. 

Skull felt himself grow weak, the drunken surge, the power high, suddenly dying down into lackluster exhaustion. He let himself crumple into Joker’s body, the warmth of the touch moving from his face back into a firm, steady embrace that kept him upright; kept him stable against the sobs that shook his body. 

He hadn’t been paying attention, too lost in his own guilty world but off to the side, Old Man Takashi began to fade into a brightening white light, swept away like dust whipped up within the stagnant air of the underground. As the light died now, the faint clammer of frail metal chimed against the ground, unbeknownst to either of the thieves.

Takashi’s treasure--

\--A plain, gold wedding band. 

* * *

As much as Ryuji hated to admit it, seeing the classroom again today felt as if it were the highest blessing. He sat and let the mindless droning of pointless mathematics and obscure foreign texts lull him into a hazy distraction away from the real world until he returned home.

Out of everything that’d happened to far--every Palace infiltration, every news report about the Mental Shutdowns--none of that compared to last night’s expedition.

His father had a change of heart. 

Of course, nothing was  _ confirmed  _ yet and it didn’t help that the added anxiety of a  _ possible mental shutdown  _ frazzled the boy even more. On one hand, the thought of the Old Man suffering as a means of understanding was...  _ good,  _ right? On the other,  _ You’re not like him.  _

You’re not like him. 

_...I don’t ever, ever, wanna be like him.  _

Ryuji sighed as he stood over the bubbling pot, the noodles dancing among the water and steam. He stole a glance over towards the living room, his mother--feeling a bit under the weather this afternoon and having lost a battle of “I’ll just work through my cold, it’s okay”--dozing off peacefully in front of the flickering TV. 

Ryuji smiled and turned back towards the noodles, about ready to reach for a bundle of uncut vegetables when the telephone suddenly chirped. Ryuji heard the frail woman stir as he took the pot off the burner, “Nah, Mom. I got it.” 

He weighed the receiver in his hand and clicked the button, “Hello?” 

“O-Oh, um... H-Hello...” The voice on the only line was timid;  _ broken,  _ even. Ryuji swallowed hard at the sudden realization.  _ I said, fuckin’ disappear, goddamnit!  _

“He-Hello...” The faux-blonde felt as if he couldn’t breathe, desperately gasping for drags of fresh air to fill his lungs as he forced himself to continue.  _ Calm down, calm down.  _ “May I ask who’s callin’?” 

“R-Ryuji? Oh wow, you, heh... y-you sound so grown up now.” His airways felt tighter, and his breathes grew shorter and quicker. In, out. In, out. “It’s, uh... it’s me... your father _.”  _ Ryuji wasn’t sure what how to respond, a fleeting concept of just hanging up the phone in a dire fight or flight thought, but he forced himself to be rational. 

The change of heart was real.  _ This was really happening.  _

The voice on the other end sighed deeply and spoke in a long, guilty tone of regret and it took Ryuji up until just now that  _ his voice wasn’t slurred;  _ the sloppiness of alcohol absent in the exchange made the change of heart all the more tangible. Even having been there, been the  _ cause  _ of it as a sly and vigorous Phantom Thief carrying out his mission, Ryuji couldn’t believe it. “Look... I, uh... This is really shitty to do over the phone, I know. I-I... I’d like to apologize--t-to you an’ to your mother... for everything...” 

The Old Man’s voice trailed off and for a moment, Ryuji didn’t know what to think. Part of him could barely fathom the words he was hearing right now as he peeked behind him and watched his mother’s slender frame lay still and silently on the couch, the steady rising and falling of her chest in a light slumber. Another part of him felt a fleeting flash of  _ anger  _ bubble up within him. He had told the old bastard to leave,  _ to disappear,  _ and of course,  _ of-fuckin’-course,  _ he didn’t listen. How difficult was it to stay out of their lives, especially since it had been  _ oh so easy  _ to just walk out in the first place like the piece of shit he was. 

Oddly enough, however, Ryuji also felt a sense of  _ contentment.  _

He mulled over the idea, the mental reel playing in the back of his mind of his father  _ acknowledging  _ that he’d fucked up, that he’d effectively ruined  _ both  _ of their lives and that there was nothing he could do about it. 

Ryuji chalked it down to simply just the satisfaction of someday,  _ someday,  _ his father would have to carry the  _ heaviest  _ weight on his shoulders,  _ for the rest of his life.  _

_ The moment he’s wanted since he was a young child.  _

_ It’s  _ actually  _ here.  _

Ryuji found himself smiling warmly to himself as the voice crackled on the other line, “I know this sounds a bit... hm... outlandish, but, uh... I was wonderin’... maybe you an’ your mother an’ I... We could uh... We could get together... Talk some things out... Maybe, uh... I could--I could try to write my wrongs... I-I just... I don’t know what else to do, Ryuji.” 

_ “H-How can I-I-I make this up t-t-to you, t-t-to your mother--?” _

_ “Disappear.”  _

_ Go on, Old Man. Carry that weight around an’ break your damn back. Mom an’ I’ll be jus’ fine.  _

“Nah.” Ryuji spoke with a sudden chipperness perking up his voice, “We’re good. Don’t call us ever again. Thanks! Buh-Bye!” 

He dropped the receiver back into place with a soft click and made his way back towards the kitchen when his mother chimed in, sleep lulling her voice into a soft slur, “Who was that, Jiji?” 

He paused, watching her tired, sunken eyes gaze at him in innocent questioning. She shouldn’t have suffer and reopen those old wounds like he did. It made him stronger. It made him realize and see things a bit differently; that not everything needed to be met head-on. If it meant giving her some peace and happiness in the remainder of her life, Ryuji would gladly take his place as her weathered, dented ol’ shield before her.

“Eh, just damn telemarketers,” He lied, tossing a haphazard shrug, “Gotta kill ‘em wit’ kindness, y’know?” 

“That’s my sweet little Juju...!” the kind, motherly brunette giggled before shifting in her place on the couch, moving the topic over onto the thought of a freshly cooked dinner as the two of them spoke. 

Even with home-cooked noodles on the brain, Ryuji couldn’t get the swirling thought of his father out of his mind. Yet, funny enough, it only made him smile wider at the realization that, yes, in fact, there _are_ such fates _worse_ than death. 

_ You’re not like him. _

For the first time in a very,  _ very  _ long time, Ryuji truly and honestly felt at peace. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
